


The Not-Again Affair

by whiterabbit1613



Series: The October 13 [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-21
Updated: 2010-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiterabbit1613/pseuds/whiterabbit1613





	The Not-Again Affair

The October 13: Day 1  
Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.  
Prompt: party  


Disclaimer: Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin, Alexander Waverly, and  _The Man From U.N.C.L.E._  are the intellectual property of NBC. 

 

“Care for a turn around the dance floor?” Napoleon asked, holding out a hand, and Illya rolled his eyes. He should have seen this coming when Napoleon had handed Mrs. Fullerton off to a young man and a glass of champagne.

“No, thank you,” said Illya. He pursed his lips – a motion that couldn’t be called _prissy_ , exactly, but only because Number 2, Section 2 didn’t _do_ prissy. “Somehow I doubt that such an action would be considered ‘low-profile’.”

Napoleon laughed and turned to lean against the wall next to his partner. “You’re no fun anymore.”

Illya’s lips twitched in what might have been a grin.

“A drink, maybe?” Napoleon asked, leaning over to nudge his shoulder against Illya’s.

Illya just gave him a cool look.

“Well,” Napoleon continued with a sigh, “I suppose we don’t want a repeat of the Chesterfield Affair, do we?”

Mrs. Fullerton chose that moment to sweep up to the alcove they had been nestled in, color high in her cheeks and a champagne flute clutched in her hand. Napoleon winked at Illya as he led his date for the evening back to the parquet, and Illya scowled once again.

He, for one, most certainly did _not_   want a repeat of the Chesterton Affair. It had been another city, another party, another beautiful woman who had been sucked into something U.N.C.L.E. had its hands in. Pretty typical, really – except somehow, Illya had ended up drunk off his ass, much to Napoleon’s delight, and spent the majority of the evening hanging off Napoleon’s arm in an attempt not to fall over. He had vague recollections of tottering out onto the dance floor at some point, and Napoleon’s amused smile not more than an inch from his face, and his warm breath as he practically purred, “My, you seem to have had a bit too much,   _tovarisch_.”

It had been bad enough before the debriefing, with Waverly’s paternal arched eyebrow and Napoleon’s “ _sure_ -you-went-to-bed-early-with-a-headache” smirk. Afterwards, it was almost unbearable.

Illya shook his head. Yeah. Never again.

 

 


End file.
